


Getting To Know Your First Sergeant

by Monna99



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:26:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26557348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monna99/pseuds/Monna99
Summary: Lipton walks into the cleared-out home, rifle slung over his shoulder. Part of the roof is caved in from mortar shellings and snow drifts into the living area to coat blasted furniture in pristine white. There’s a terrible beauty to it.
Relationships: Carwood Lipton/Ronald Speirs
Comments: 1
Kudos: 38





	Getting To Know Your First Sergeant

**Author's Note:**

> This may turn into a collection of drabbles. We'll see 😉

Lipton walks into the cleared-out home, rifle slung over his shoulder. Part of the roof is caved in from mortar shellings and snow drifts into the living area to coat blasted furniture in pristine white. There’s a terrible beauty to it. Roe, Heffron and Guarnere follow behind the soon-to-be Lieutenant. They don’t notice him and Speirs says nothing to alert them of his presence. He sees Lip pick up a set of gloves, two blankets and two tins of fruit. “Here, boys,” he murmurs, giving the items to the men. “Doc, make sure one of those blankets gets to Alley. He needs one.”

Lipton needs one, too. He’s been shivering and coughing fit to raise the dead. Speirs sees Roe object, shaking his head, but no one is more stubborn than Sergeant Lipton when it comes to the welfare of his men, and Roe finally caves, taking the blanket Lipton holds out. Those thin lips that smile so rarely curve upward in a small grin and he says a quiet thank you before he and the other two men take their leave. They don’t notice Speirs as they pass by. 

“You should have kept one of the blankets,” he says, not critically but as a simple comment. Lipton turns to him, unsurprised to find him there. He doesn’t look disturbed or nervous the way some of the other men do around him. Speirs keeps expecting him to follow their lead at some point and cut a wide path around him but Lipton walks closer instead and shakes his head.

“No, one of the men may need it more. I’m recovered, I don’t need extra blankets.” The words barely leave his mouth before he begins coughing. Thankfully, it doesn’t last long. Lipton flushes, sheepish, at the droll look Speirs shoots him. “I’m fine, sir,” he insists, “just the last of it working out of my system.”

“Mmm.” It’s then that he remembers an overheard mutter. “You look after these men,” he notes idly as he motions for Lipton to follow him outside. Ron is not spending the night in a roofless husk, not when he can commandeer one of the better homes. 

Lipton doesn’t deny it. “I try, sir. Many of us have been together since Toccoa.”

“There,” Speirs says, and leads them to a single-story house. It looks rather small, but the roof at least is un-decorated with holes and will keep the cutting wind out. When they explore inside, they find the place free of corpses with the added bonus of having running water and two beds. One of them is even functional. It’s practically the Ritz. “We’ll stay here tonight. You’re taking the bed.”

“Sir—” Lipton begins to protest, predictably. 

Speirs steps close and places his hand on Lipton’s arm, halting the words on the sergeant’s lips. “I can make it an order if you want.” When Lipton’s shoulders droop, Ron squeezes the arm under his hand. “It’s fine, First Sergeant, the settee is large enough to be comfortable. After Bastogne, just being indoors feels like a luxury.”

Lipton glances down, dark lashes fanning against pale skin, and gives a short nod. “That’s true enough.”

Ron’s fingers tighten on Lip. “Stop that,” he grits before he can catch himself. He reaches out and places his fingertips under Lipton’s chin, forcing his head back up. “Stop looking down.” Lipton’s brow furrows, taken aback. “You’re a First Sergeant, you’re being promoted to lieutenant and you’re respected by every man in Easy. That subservient attitude doesn’t suit you.” 

All perfectly true, but that’s not why it bothers Ron. Lipton bites his lip, thinking, and looks up at Ron through his eyelashes. It’s a look that on a dame would be coquettish, flirty. It looks no different on Lipton and the hell of it is that Carwood just does not seem to get that. Ron pulls away and turns his back under the guise of looking for food in the kitchen. 

“I’m not being subservient when I lower my eyes, sir,” Lipton protests from behind him. “It’s a habit, I suppose.”

It’s a bad habit. A habit that makes Lipton appear submissive, makes him appear as sweet as the chocolate the men eat up greedily whenever they can get their grubby hands on it, and the thought of that makes Ron want to— 

He shoves the cupboard closed with enough force that a mouse scurries out of its hiding hole to run across the floor. Lipton brings his rifle up, startled, before blowing out a sharp breath and lowering it. “You okay, sir?” he asks, warily. 

“Fine.” He’s being too short, too abrupt and he regrets it when Lipton’s expression becomes uncertain. 

Carwood glances around one last time before looking down again and saying, “Shall I check on the boys now, sir?” His voice has that kind, soft tone to which the men respond. Some respond by calling Carwood _Mama Lip_ in exasperatedly affectionate tones. That’s fine, it makes them protective of Lipton. It’s the men who hear that mellow, rich voice and sidle up to Lip, offering a cigarette, fingers brushing and lingering that give Ron murderous inclinations. “Sir?” he prompts, biting his lip.

Goddamn it, Lipton still does not understand. Ron takes a breath, then another forcing himself not to reach for Lip. He absolutely will not bend Lipton over the back of the rickety sofa and fuck him senseless. He will not. 

… Lipton would look better splayed against the dark navy-blue sheets of the bed. _Damn it._ Breathing through the desire to push Lipton to his knees, or to get on his knees himself, is becoming exponentially less effective the longer he spends in the man’s company. He doesn’t know how the other men have managed to stay rational as long as they have, Ron is losing his mind after only a few weeks of exposure. Meantime, those damn depraved vultures have been circling, waiting, making attempts to draw Lip in, to seduce him with friendly smiles and pats on his shoulders at every opportunity. Likely, the only thing that’s stopped them from making an overt gesture is Lipton’s higher rank. Speirs has seen it, has quietly but emphatically — with his finger on the trigger of his M1 for added emphasis — fended them off. 

“Lip!” The call comes from outside in a voice that sounds vaguely familiar. 

Carwood glances at the door. “The boys need me, sir.” 

_Of course they do_. Ron only just keeps himself from growling. The title of Mama Lip really does suit him. He places the men’s well-being above his own far too often. Ron frowns, and, though the last thing he wants to do is drive the other man further away, mutters, “They don’t need to be tucked in, First Sergeant,” as he lights a cigarette. 

Lipton pauses at the front door and glances back, framed in the light of the setting sun, but he doesn’t look offended. “I’ll be sure to leave them untucked, sir,” he assures, amused, and Ron huffs, watching him go.


End file.
